


Oh, and I rush to the start

by englishghosts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, the sex scene fades to black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishghosts/pseuds/englishghosts
Summary: "A candle makes it more romantic," he says. Sherlock's blinking intensifies. "Is it okay?"Sherlock closes his eyes for a second and inhales deeply. When he opens them again, he smiles. "It's all fine."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Cliché title from Coldplay's The Scientist because I'm absolutely terrible at naming things.

John waits until 221b has been restored, until he has moved back, until everything has fallen back into place, with the addition of nappies and baby bottles alongside the experiments around the flat. He doesn't want to fuck things up, has done that enough for a lifetime. He asks Mrs. Hudson to take care of Rosie for the whole night, calls Angelo to make a reservation, just in case.  
  
He says, "Let's eat out, tonight" in a neutral voice, still able to shrug it off as a normal dinner between friends. It's a quiet Thursday, their last case finished two days ago. Sherlock is playing the violin to Rosie while John feeds her. She seems to like it. John definitely does. Sherlock nods, but doesn't stop playing.  
  
He wears a date shirt, combs his hair nicely. Mrs. Hudson looks ecstatic when he drops off Rosie. "I'm glad you two have sorted things out", she says, fussing with his collar.  
  
"I'm trying to, at least", he mumbles, as he hears Sherlock coming down the stairs. He isn't sure if he has mental Date Goggles on, but Sherlock looks more beautiful than usual. Even though John likes the scarf, it is a damn shame to see him cover up that long neck.  
  
"You know, I've never been able to look at cabbies the same way", John says, as a cab passes them by on the way to Angelo's. Sherlock grins and starts to rant a list of professions of the most famous serial killers. He stops for a second and gives John a long look when he sees where they're headed, but says nothing about it.  
  
Angelo is expansive as ever, kissing both of them on both cheeks, and promising anything free, as usual, as he sits them at the table by the window.  
  
"Angelo, could you do me a favour?" John says, purposefully not looking at Sherlock. "Could you bring us a candle?"  
  
Angelo stops for a second, then beams. "Of course, of course!" He scurries to light one. John follows him with his eyes, avoiding Sherlock's until Angelo has set a pretty candle holder on the centre of the table and given them the menus. If he were honest with himself, he would admit he is afraid he has misread the signs, and afraid he hasn't. When he looks up, Sherlock is blinking rapidly, eyes flickering between John's face and the candle.  
  
"A candle makes it more romantic," he says. Sherlock's blinking intensifies. "Is it okay?"  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes for a second and inhales deeply. When he opens them again, he smiles. "It's all fine."

The dread in John’s stomach dissipates, giving place to something warm and pleasant. He returns Sherlock’s smile, brushes their feet together under the table.

They purposefully don't talk about the events in Sherrinford, steering the conversation to other, happier topics. Sherlock eats, this time, and drinks a glass of wine that turns his cheeks a lovely shade of pink.  
  
As they are walking home, John brushes his fingers against Sherlock's, tentatively, still able to pass it off as an accident. But Sherlock brushes back. John gets bolder then, winds his fingers around Sherlock's until they're holding hands properly. He feels like everyone on the street, in the cars, on the bloody CCTV is staring at them, but he doesn't let go until they're at the door and Sherlock needs to untangle his hand to get the keys. Still, he presses himself close to Sherlock's back, feels a shudder even through the thick coat. Sherlock only manages to get the door open on the third attempt.  
  
When they finally enter, Sherlock takes a few steps forward, and turns to John expectantly.  
  
_This is awkward_ , John thinks, not just because it's a first date, of sorts, and not just because it's a man, but because it's Sherlock, and when you've been hopelessly in love with someone for so many years without admitting, and when both of you have been through so much together, and when you two bloody share a flat, how do you just ask them up for coffee (or tea, Sherlock prefers tea, even though John doesn't intend to waste time on beverages).  
  
He decides to stop worrying about the specifics, walks up to Sherlock and kisses him.  
  
Sherlock sucks in a breath through his nose, and stands perfectly still. John pulls back, worried it might be too much, too fast. Even after all these years, he's still not sure what Sherlock _likes_ , if he even likes anything. Sherlock's eyes are wide open, his mouth parted and his cheeks are flushed pink, from the wine, the night air and maybe from John's lips.  
  
John thinks it might be a good idea to give him some space, takes a step back, but Sherlock grabs his arm in a fast, desperate move. "Can you do that again?” He asks, in a huff of breath.  
  
"Yes. Yes, of course I can", John answers, relief that he might yet have a chance washing over him. It takes him a moment to realize he should get on with it. He laughs then, steps back into Sherlock's personal space, traces his thumb through that ridiculously gorgeous cupid's bow, and kisses him again.  
  
Sherlock kisses him back this time, slow and unsure, the hand on John's arm coming up to tangle in his hair, the other one wrapping around John's waist. Sherlock's lips are soft, and he parts them with a small gasp when John traces them with his tongue. He seems to melt as John tangles his fingers through the dark curls and kisses him more thoroughly.  
  
When John pulls back and opens his eyes, he notices he has pushed Sherlock against the wall. Sherlock leans back against it, his eyes closed, mouth red and wet and so lovely that John can't help but kiss him again, his lips, his face, his jaw and down his long neck, untangling the scarf until he is stopped by Sherlock's shirt, and it's all he can do not to undress Sherlock right there and continue. He cannot believe he hasn't spent the last few years doing this. He never wants to stop.  
  
Sherlock seems to be thinking along the same lines. He moans softly at every kiss, the hand on John's hair pulling hard enough to hurt, not that John minds. He wants Sherlock desperate, wants to find out what noises he can coax out of him, wants him more than he has ever wanted anyone else. He is painfully hard, and when he presses his thigh between Sherlock's legs, he finds out Sherlock is hard too. That sends a jolt down his spine, and he presses harder, Sherlock's moan echoing loudly through the hall.  
  
"We should go upstairs", John mumbles against Sherlock's neck. "Might wake up Rosie."  
  
"Don't we have to get her?" Sherlock speaks into his hair.  
  
"I asked Mrs. Hudson to watch her until tomorrow," John looks up at Sherlock, hoping that his face conveys that they have _all night_. It takes a few seconds for Sherlock to catch up, and when he does, his eyes widen and he blushes more deeply. "We don't have to do anything, though", John amends. "We can wait, we don't ever have to do anything you're not comfortable with."  
  
It takes a while for Sherlock to answer, and during this time he brushes his long hands through John's hair, staring into his face as if trying to commit it to memory.  
  
"We have waited long enough."  
  
***  
  
Sherlock looks beautiful after sex, John realizes. His curls are a dishevelled halo around his head, his chest and cheeks are still flushed, and there is a purple bruise blooming on his shoulder. He curls around John like a pushy cat, looking content as he lies his cheek against John's chest and John pets his hair, messing it even further.  
  
"Is it always like this?" He asks, after a while, voice muffled against John's skin.  
  
"Mmm?" John, nearly falling asleep, fails to grasp what he means.  
  
"Sex. Is it always this..." he trails off, making a vague gesture at them, and John marvels at the fact he can temporarily short-circuit Sherlock's brain, can’t wait to test the limits of it.  
  
"It wasn't, before." And it's true. It has never felt like this with anyone, not his countless girlfriends, not the couple of men he has shagged. _This_ , this is what people write sonnets about. "I suppose it matters who you do it with."  
  
"This can't possibly make sense." Sherlock frowns, turning to face John, and, consequently, digging his chin into John's chest. "Your nerve endings are the same, regardless of wh..."  
  
John pulls his face up by his curls and kisses him thoroughly. "You tell me your nerve endings were this _stimulated_ when Janine kissed you and I'll agree."  
  
Sherlock just hums noncommittally, drapes himself around John and buries his nose into John's neck. John resumes stroking his hair, and after a few minutes, his breathing evens out.  
  
John's last thought before he falls asleep is that maybe they can make it work, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://englishghosts.tumblr.com) .


End file.
